


Pretty

by MultiHistoryNerd



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Crying, Depression, Gen, Gender Roles, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Mother-Son Relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Thomas does not like gender roles, Thomas just wants love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25307056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MultiHistoryNerd/pseuds/MultiHistoryNerd
Summary: She'd measured him, helped him choose a style and a fabric from the vast collection she had… When it was finally done, she had helped him step into it, done the buttons up at the back, and given him a surprise kiss on the cheek, resting her hands on his shoulders from behind him as he looked in the mirror.Thomas is caught crossdressing and the downstairs react. It takes a near tragedy for them to realise how much their words can hurt.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Anna Bates, Thomas Barrow & Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow & John Bates, Thomas Barrow & Thomas Barrow's Mother
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> I, unfortunately, discovered this fandom quite late, i.e. this year. This is also not just my first work in this fandom, but my first one on AO3. Feel free to roast me in the comments, I appreciate feedback.
> 
> A warning this fic will contain references and scenes with homophobia, domestic violence, and suicide. Please don't read this if these things trigger you.

If there was one thing about Thomas Barrow's life that he could completely assure you of, it was that his difference from other people had begun at birth. The signs he was different, however, had formed and revealed themselves over time, slowly clearing the fog from the vision of those around him until they could all see him for what he was. It had all begun to show up so long ago - before he came to Downton, before he was thrown onto the streets, before he looked at the girls his classmates salivated over and realised he was different.

Looking back, the earliest sign was one of his oldest memories.

He'd been sitting on his mother's lap, barely three years old. His mother's dress had been green and worn and soft, and she'd been stroking his hair, pointing to different pictures and dress patterns in the book in front of them.

"Which one, love? You're old enough to help Mummy pick a pretty one."

He remembered feeling so warm and safe. He'd marvelled at the pictures in the book in front of him, photographs and sketches of fashionable ladies adorning the pages. Finally spotting a shiny, silky blue dress worn by a dark-haired woman, he pointed wordlessly to the picture (speech had still been a bit of a struggle; he was still a baby, after all).

"Perfect, sweetheart. That's pretty. Let's make that one," she'd said, pausing in stroking his hair for a moment to tickle his tummy. He'd shrieked with laughter and there his memory faded away. He had other memories from that time, where he was barely any older (though old enough that speaking had finally been achieved), of putting on his mother's dresses, drowning in the excess fabric, while she laughed delightedly at him, and said he looked beautiful. He'd been so proud of it back then, that he could make Mummy so happy.

By the time he was six, Thomas' mother had given in to his begging for a dress of his own. His memories of this were closer, clearer. She'd measured him, helped him choose a style and a fabric from the vast collection she had in the room she used for her seamstress work. He'd watched, bouncing on his toes, as she cut out everything, painstakingly stitching everything together by hand. When it was finally done, she had helped him step into it, done the buttons up at the back, and given him a surprise kiss on the cheek (which made him squeal), resting her hands on his shoulders from behind him as he looked in the mirror.

“What do you think?”

He'd twirled round in front of her, repeating, “Thank you, Mummy, thank you, Mummy!” over and over until he was sure in hindsight her ears must have bled. She'd just smiled and said, "You look so pretty, my love."

The euphoria had lasted all of twenty minutes. Hearing the heavy footsteps belonging to his father coming up the stairs to their house, Thomas had made to run towards the front door to show Daddy his new dress. He made it exactly two metres before Mummy pulled him back, suddenly horrifically pale, and yanked the entire dress over his head. She shoved it into one of the sewing room's many drawers, and knelt down to whisper, "Let's keep your new dress a secret, hey sweetheart? Otherwise, Daddy will want one, and I don't have time to make one for him - we don't want him getting jealous, do we?" Her smile had been strange - something was wrong and he didn't know what.

He frowned. Something was definitely wrong, but he couldn't begin to figure out what. He knew his Daddy got very, very angry quite a lot, especially when he'd just been to the pub. Sometimes he had even heard yelling, things being thrown and Mummy crying, but he always did what Mummy said and stayed in bed, trying to block the noises with his pillow. Whenever she'd told him to stay in bed that night, she'd had the same expression on her face.

"Ok, Mummy. Secret."

It was only years later that Thomas could finally put a label on the emotion in her smile. It was fear.

By age nine, Thomas had begun to wise up. He'd learnt, through casual discussions at school, that other boys did not put on dresses for fun. Other boys did not have mothers who let them wear dresses, much less make him dresses when he asked for them. Only girls wear dresses, everyone said, as though it was obvious. But Thomas was a boy. He looked like a boy and felt like a boy and got called 'boy' at school when the teacher called him to the front for a whipping after giving a smart answer. He was even (if he could brag for a moment) brave like all boys were meant to be. The evidence was under his clothes - the bruises, welts and other marks where his father had taken out his rage on him, instead of his mum.

The violence, he could handle. He'd do anything for Mum. The words were worse.

"Be a man, not a whiny little baby. Crying is for girls and queers, Thomas."

"There's always been something wrong with you. I should have drowned you at birth."

"Look at him - the boy's weak! He's a revolting little lavender, I'm telling you!"

He knew what 'lavender' meant. He'd had it thrown at him, sharp and stabbing like a knife, on the playground at school. He'd heard the priest at the local church mention 'the lavenders' in a long list of people God closed the doors to Heaven on. He'd heard it whispered amongst his neighbours when the local shopkeeper Mr Gordon, a large man with a red face and a wide smile, was taken away by the police when Thomas was eight. He had never returned.

The worst by far was his classmates using it on him, however. He'd made the mistake, once, of confessing to a boy he lived a few houses down from that he had never liked a girl before and he didn't see what all the fuss was about. Ever since, he'd been abandoned by the few playmates he had and taunted at every turn in at school, in the streets, even in low whispers in church. He always wondered how much worse it would be if they all knew about the dresses.

Despite his ex-friends' and father's comments towards Thomas, he had continued with his hobby. Now, though, along with the thrill in his veins when he saw himself looking pretty in the mirror, he had an awful, sick feeling underneath it. _There's something wrong with me. I love how I look. I'm sick. I like dresses. I'm disgusting. Mum isn’t disgusted. Queer. I’m pretty. Fairy. I’m pretty. Lavender. I’m pretty._

He had spoken his thoughts aloud to his mother once, breaking down crying after another round of taunting at school, and she had scooped him up in her arms, kissing his brow. "My special sweetheart. You are my son. I love you, always. My own little brother was the same as you, and I loved him too. No matter who you want to spend your life with, I'll be right by your side."

The warm feeling of being held, of being cared for, spread through his body, and he stopped crying. He was safe. Mum would always love him.

His safety didn't last long.

A long winter and longer flu season were taking their toll on the residents of Stockport. His mother had come down with a bad case of it - she had coughed and retched and burned with fever while Thomas (who had just barely reached ten years old) wiped her brow and cuddled next to her in the bed, despite her gentle warnings about being infected himself.

But last night, at least, she had gotten a night of sleep. The doctor had pronounced her 'practically recovered' after taking her temperature, and Thomas had finally felt safe to sleep in his own bed instead of beside his mother.

Edging out of bed early that morning, he tiptoed out of his room, down the stairs, past his father snoring in his armchair, and put the kettle on for tea. His father wouldn't wake up - he could smell the alcohol a whole room over.

Carefully balancing two cups and the teapot, he ventured back upstairs to his Mum's room. Peeking in through the doorway, he saw her still and pale in the bed. The hairs on his neck began to stand up as he crossed the room, and an unsettling feeling came over him. Something was wrong. But, no, mum was right here. Thomas put the tea down on the bedside table and went to the window to open the curtains, the whole time pushing down the feeling of _wrong_ that had set into his bones.

He turned back to his mother…

…and froze.

She was white. Her lips were blue. He could see, even from the window, that she wasn’t breathing. It was impossible, it was unthinkable – she was _dead_.

He didn’t think. He just screamed.

The hours afterwards would forever be a blank spot in Thomas Barrow’s memory. When trying to recall the time after his mother’s death more clearly in the months and years after, he always drew a blank. If pressed, he could vaguely remember curling up in his mother’s sewing room that night, surrounded by fabrics, patterns and buttons. He had for the first time in his life sincerely prayed, asking God to take him too, to let him go with his Mum.

The darkness of the night was completely silent. No one answered him.


End file.
